


Bone Rot

by neglectedtuesday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Nogitsune & Stiles are Twins, Nogitsune's Name is Nikolai, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Stilinski-centric, Stilinski Family Feels, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 07:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16698247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Stiles watches Peter from across the room, although he feels like he shouldn’t. Like he shouldn’t try to insert himself, even by proxy, into the moments Peter is experiencing. Autumn spills into the living room through the open doors, lighting Peter from behind. He is bathed in soft light and Stiles lingers in the shadows, ignoring the symbolism of that. He’s bored of all the different metaphors for longing.





	Bone Rot

**Author's Note:**

> Previously Ladypigswagon, Now NeglectedTuesday - I fancied a name change. Points if you can guess what my new username is a reference to. 
> 
> I'm not sure what this even is if I'm perfectly honest. It's very experimental and I'm not sure if anyone will even like it but I hope you do. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings For Violence, Animal Death and Copious Amount of Blood. Also a lot of Cain and Abel symbolism. Sorry about that, it just struck me as interesting.

_ ‘And the Lord said to Cain, "Where is Abel your brother? And he said, "I do not know: am I my brother's keeper?" And He said, "What have you done? Listen! your brother's blood cries out to me from the soil. And so, cursed shall you be by the soil that gaped with its mouth to take your brother's blood from your hand. If you till the soil, it will no longer give you strength. A restless wanderer shall you be on the earth."’  _

 

_ \--- _

 

Stiles steps off the train, thinking about the space between the platform and the tracks. He thinks about how when he was a child, he thought it was a gaping maw that would swallow him whole and now that he’s an adult, he fights against the intrusive thought that encourages him to drop his phone into the darkness. He has the same thought around storm drains, how easy it would be to just let it slip between the slatted metal. 

 

The station platform looks much the same as it always does. Concrete, weeds and the smell of petrichor. The only thing that changes are the billboard adverts. He sees one for his old high school, teenagers in lacrosse gear sporting smiles that don’t reach their eyes. He’s hit with whatever the opposite of nostalgia is, remembers the ill-fitting confines of a uniform designed to make everyone shapeless and touches the hollow of his throat, remembering the phantom constriction of lacrosse pads. 

 

The number of missing posters is concerning. Thin paper rippling old photos of lost women. Misery in black, white and red. Stiles feels persecuted under their gaze, all eyes trained on him with a desperate kind of malice. Or perhaps it’s a warning. Don’t stay here too long, you might become missing too.

 

Nikolai is waiting in the parking lot, in a different car to the last time Stiles was back. He fiddles around with the radio as Stiles gets in, a habit he can’t seem to shake no matter how old he is. Messing around with the settings, sorting through the static to find some obscure radio station that will crackle in and out of focus during the journey. He settles on a station that’s playing some sort of Celtic choral music before addressing Stiles. 

 

“Hey Mieczyslaw, welcome back to the sticks.” 

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, putting on his seatbelt as Nikolai pulls out of the parking space. 

 

“So how does it feel? Coming home?”

 

Like trying on someone else’s shoes. Like tripping and skinning your knees, the sting doesn’t quite hurt in a way that warrants tears but still leaves a sour salt taste in your mouth. Like misremembering the words to your favourite song, the syllables catching on your molars and stumbling off your tongue. None of these are answers his twin brother would understand or appreciate. 

 

“I’ll tell you when I’ve decided how I feel,” is the answer he settles on. Nikolai snorts, a wheezing noise like the air being let out of tires. 

 

“It’s Mom’s fifty-ninth birthday party, you can’t muster up some feeling of joy or conviviality?” 

 

“I’ve been travelling for hours, the only feeling I can muster up is hunger. And the party’s tomorrow.” 

 

The Celtic choral music reaches a crescendo but it has an unpolished, distorted quality to it, as if it was recorded in someone’s basement using a cassette deck boombox, like the one Nikolai used to mess around with. It’s presumably in the attic somewhere, recorded lyrics only a teenager could love decaying and disappearing into silence. Stiles had tried to record poetry on it once, to see whether what he’d written was anything of note but hated the way his voice sounded when played back. 

 

“When was the last time you went to a family party?” Nikolai asks, breaking hard as the stoplight turns red. Stiles shrugs, looking out the window. He spots a fox dragged the ragged form of a pigeon into the undergrowth. They lock eyes, only for a moment. Stiles wonders if it’s predator recognizing predator, or predator recognizing prey. He touches the hollow of his throat again. 

 

The light turns green. The fox retreats into the bushes, leaving feathers and a bloody smear behind. The missing posters flutter in the wind. 

 

\---

 

Stiles almost drowns when he’s six years old. His father takes them both fishing and Stiles has never been sure whether he fell or was pushed.  He remembers the feeling of cold water caressing his exposed skin, the icy touch like running your fingertips over frozen plastic.   
  
He remembers Nikolai’s face, floating above him. A pale beacon in the darkness of the sea, calling to him but he can’t hear. The water presses against his ears, muffling the world as he’s pulled down by the weight of his clothes. He’s never experienced a silence quite like that moment, that strange and overwhelming serenity. Perhaps he’s romanticised the feeling but it was all consuming and given the right circumstances addictive. When he’s a teenager, he’ll attempt to recreate the sensation with lakes and swimming pools and baths. Sometimes it works. Mostly it doesn’t.   
  
John pulls him out of the water and the world came back online, Stiles’ senses bursting with awareness. Nikolai scrambles to yank Stiles into a hug, whimpering like a coyote with its paw in a trap.    
  
“Don’t leave me like that,” Nikolai whines, pressing his cheek against Stiles hair.    
  
A week later, Peter Hale moves in next door.

 

\---

 

“You are going to dress smartly tomorrow, right Mieczyslaw?” Claudia phrases it like a question with clear intonation that there’s a correct answer. Stiles pauses, the fork almost to his mouth. Blood drips from the piece of steak on the end, hitting the porcelain plate with a soft thud. 

 

“Yes, I am.” 

 

Nikolai scrapes his knife on his plate, everyone wincing at the sound. Stiles eats his piece of steak. It melts in his mouth, all copper and sweetness.

 

“What did you bring?”

 

Stiles finishes chewing. “A suit. And yes, it’s tailored.” 

 

This is an acceptable answer. For now. Stiles knows the topic will come up later, his mother will find an old suit, probably one of Nikolai’s from somewhere in the house and offer it with the flair of a 1950’s sales assistant. A cyclical argument will follow, layered with all the versions of this conversation that have come before. Stiles didn’t think he’d slip into the role of stubborn son so soon but it was to be expected. 

 

In fact this entire scene could arguably be one from a movie, with the low lighting and each family member placed symmetrically at the four points of the compass around the 18th century wooden table. The camera focuses on each of them in turn, everything strategic and precise. A tight close up on the anguish hidden in the corner of his mother’s lip, on the glass vase of marigolds and wormwood, on the lazy turn of the record player. The tension is thick. Cloying. Stiles tightens his grip on his knife.

 

Nikolai makes a joke. It’s something stupid and not even that funny but the mood shifts. Their parents chuckle, Nikolai leans over to pour more wine in John’s glass. The crimson liquid splashes up and over the side, a few droplets glinting as they trickle down the crystal. Stiles runs his tongue along the edge of his incisors. He loosens his grip, resting his knife on the plate. 

 

No one brings up the missing women. You don’t talk about such unsavory things at dinner. 

 

\---

 

Stiles notes, when he lays out his clothes on the bedspread, that no matter how much this suit cost, it’s not traditionally masculine and that will be its downfall. He runs his hand along the jacket, the soft, downy velvet causing the tips of his fingers to tingle. Normally, he isn’t a fan of ostentatious colours, but there was something about the deep crimson of this suit that appealed to him. The split open pomegranate, dried blood red of it. 

 

Stiles grabs the white shirt, rubs the fabric between his fingers briefly before slipping into it. He tugs the material into place, making sure the gold buttons match with the correct buttonholes. He straighten the cuffs before reaching for the trousers. He’s just got the fabric over his knees when the door opens, the sudden movement shocking him into stillness.

 

“Oh, sorry, I thought this room was empty.”  A voice, deepened by age, but still recognisable. It conjures thoughts of summer, freckles emerging on shoulders and wandering the woods with only their imagination and each other for company. Thoughts that quickly turn to separation, to following different paths and growing into different people.

 

“Well it’s not,” Stiles replies, pulling his trousers over his thighs. Peter tilts his head to one side, a strangely calculating gesture given the circumstances. 

 

“You have a tattoo.”

 

“Astute observation.” Stiles turns back to the bed, picking up his suit jacket. 

 

“What is it?”

 

“Aconite, it’s a poisonous flower.” Stiles leans down to pull his black patent brogues out from under the bed. “Why were you looking for a free bedroom?”

 

“I was told that was where we were putting our coats.” Peter lifts the hand holding his black overcoat. Stiles hums noncommittally. The room is quiet with potential conversation starters, millions of threads that either one of them could choose to pick up. Stiles has always been good at small talk when he can make the effort. Reminiscing with a childhood friend seems like it will venture into maudlin territory and he’s been trying to avoid sentimentality this weekend. 

 

“You look good,” Peter says. The words feel clunky, they have a weight of other unsaid thoughts. You look good meaning you look different. 

 

“Likewise.” And he does, in his fitted blue suit.  

 

“If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were being a bit hostile.”

 

“It’s not hostility, it’s indifference. And you don’t know me.”

 

“Ouch.” Peter puts a hand over his heart, pouting. Stiles shrugs, brushing past Peter on his way out the door. Peter grabs the crook of Stiles arm. Stiles looks down at the hand before looking up at Peter’s face. They’re the same height, which surprises Stiles’ as he was always the shorter one. 

 

“We grew apart but we were friends. Once.” 

 

“We were many things once,” Stiles replies, gently prying Peter’s fingers off. Peter opens his mouth, possibly to argue but is cut off.

 

“Mieczyslaw, what are you doing up there? Guests are arriving.”  Claudia’s tone is on the border of frantic. 

 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Stiles says. Peter steps aside to let Stiles pass but the hard line of his jaw suggests this conversation is far from over.

 

\---

 

August is slick. Yellow bellied and dry, it plucks the moisture from the air with invasive fingers. Stiles licks his lips, trying to sooth the sting of a split skin. Peter walks ahead. He has a big stick which he’s swiping through the long grass and bushes, cutting a path like a jungle explorer. Stiles trails behind, gently nudging the plants back into place as if that will fix the damage Peter has already done. 

 

This is their last summer together. Peter insists it’s not, that going to high school doesn’t change the fact that they’re best friends but Stiles isn’t holding out much hope. Peter will be fine at high school, he doesn’t care what people think of him and that’s intincing. Peter is bold and charming and golden. Stiles cares too much what people think. He knows he’ll be eaten alive, his fear ripe and delicious to the bullies he’ll encounter. He watches a field mouse scurry into the bracken and feels a brief moment of kinship. 

 

“Oh my god.” Peter’s stopped walking, hand brought up to his mouth in a perfect imitation of his mother. 

 

The deer is dead. Legs haphazard, it’s been gutted without finesse. The blood is dark and sticky, congealing around the open wounds burdened with flies. Stiles takes the stick from Peter’s loose grip, reaching over to poke the matted fur of the gaping belly. The flies rear up, their buzzing loud and indignant. 

 

“Gross,” Peter says, “what happened to it?”

 

“Someone was angry,” Stiles murmurs, crouching down to look more closely at the damage. The chest is starting to sink, ribs protruding as the flesh rots away. An ache blooms, deep in his chest as if he drank hot chocolate far too fast. He starts filling the wounds with wildflowers, stuffing buttercups into the slack jaw, the wide cavern of the mouth made bright and fragrant. He ignores the dirt and blood sliding under his nails. 

 

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, leaning over Stiles shoulder. 

 

“They left her out here like she was just meat,” Stiles replies, tone almond bitter and sharp, “like she didn’t have worth. I’m honouring her, I guess, I don’t know. It made sense when I started doing it.”

 

Peter hums, turning to crouch down and begins picking daisies. He weaves them together into a daisy chain crown, placing it carefully on the deer’s head like a floral halo. Peter smiles at Stiles, the sun shimmering behind his head, giving his a halo of his own. Stiles will miss this. Being understood. 

 

Stiles washes his hands in the creek to avoid awkward questions should their parents see and they head home, the late afternoon sun making everything hazy and golden. This is the last time they hang out with each other. They never tell anyone about the deer. 

 

\---

 

Stiles has spent many years leaving things behind. He considers herself to be in a constant state of evolution, shedding that which hinders him like a snake sheds its skin. Career orientated has been as much a descriptor as it has been an insult. But his life has changed, he has made it his own, filling it with friends and hobbies. Coming back to this house feels like a step back. 

 

Stiles watches Peter from across the room, although he feels like he shouldn’t. Like he shouldn’t try to insert himself, even by proxy, into the moments Peter is experiencing. Autumn spills into the living room through the open doors, lighting Peter from behind. He is bathed in soft light and Stiles lingers in the shadows, ignoring the symbolism of that. He’s bored of all the different metaphors for longing. 

 

Nikolai appears at Stiles elbow, champagne glasses filled with a yellow bubbling liquid in his hands. He offers one to Stiles, who takes it, bringing the glass up to sniff the contents. 

 

“What’s in this?”

 

“Champagne and absinthe,” Nikolai replies, taking a large swig of his own. Death in the Afternoon. It seems fitting. Stiles takes a sip. The room is buzzing with conversation. Words like ‘ _ missing _ ’ and ‘ _ tragic _ ’ and ‘ _ probably dead _ ’ get tossed around, bottle messages full of meaning in the sea of his parents’ friends. 

 

“Where did you even find absinthe?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Nikolai says, winking and leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece. “So still pining after all these years? I thought you got over this pathetic obsession.” 

 

“You’re not funny.”

 

“Aren’t I? Many would disagree. But we were talking about you, lingering at the edges, always looking in.”

 

He sounds like he’s teasing but really he’s seeking out the soft meat parts of Stiles and twisting the knife in. His clever twin, always the first to draw blood. Less than twenty-four hours and they’ve slipped into old routines. Stiles knows better than to rise to the bait, won’t let Nikolai sink the hook into his cheek and reel him in. He knows all about endurance. 

 

“I don’t want to play Nikolai,” Stiles says and he walks away. He can feel Nikolai’s eyes on the back of his neck, trying to make him feel cornered. Watched. Force Stiles to snarl and make a scene, relish when their parents reprimand and punish him. In these places, we all develop teeth and claws. Stiles refuses to show his. 

 

\---

 

He calls himself Stiles because Peter struggles to pronounce Mieczyslaw. He calls himself Stiles because it’s way of naming himself, of claiming his own identity separate from that of his family. He calls himself Stiles because he likes the hiss of the s, the soft sibilance of Stiles Stilinski. 

 

He calls himself Stiles because Nikolai hates it.

 

\---

 

Stiles finds a quiet part of the garden, beneath the shade of rowan tree. He leans against the trunk, closing his eyes and exhaling. The air is thick with the scent of rotting leaves. When he opens his eyes, Peter is standing there, eyes sharp and curious. Peter’s eyes have always been piercing, as if he was searching for the place where you began so that he could pick up that thread and unravel you.  

 

“I guess you want to pick up where we left off?” Stiles asks. “You know, people drift apart. It’s not a crime.”

 

“I’d like to know you, as you are now.”

 

“Really?”

 

“It was my fault we drifted,” Peter says, taking a step forward. “I let myself get caught up in my parents’ expectations.”

 

“Doesn’t everyone?”

 

Peter sighs. “I’m trying to apologise.”

 

“I have problems with forgiveness.”

 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Peter’s mimicry is almost perfect, like those birds deep in the jungle who can recreate the sound of camera shutters once filmed. 

 

“You can’t un-betray me.”

 

“Was it a betrayal?”

 

“It was abandonment. You left me to navigate the labyrinth alone and stole all the string.” 

 

“It wasn’t that bad.”

 

Stiles snorts. “How would you know?” 

 

“Please don’t be like this, please just don’t.”

 

“Look, Peter, you can tell me how sorry you are and how guilty you feel, but guess what? I don’t have to forgive you.” 

 

“Your stubbornness is your least attractive quality,” Peter snaps. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Stiles laughs because Peter looks so much like his mother when he does that. Stiles half expects Peter to start clutching at pearls and commenting on how good the garden looks despite the weather. “I know what you’re thinking, I’m not my mother.”

 

“Oh come on,” Stiles says, folding his arms across his chest, “you are one hundred percent your mother. You even became a lawyer.”

 

Peter’s affronted expression makes Stiles laugh harder, though he has no idea why. Possibly the absinthe. Peter rolls his eyes, but they’re crinkling at the edges which means he’s amused. 

 

“Well, for someone who said he wouldn’t turn into his father, you sure did go to university for criminology.”

 

“Hey, I also majored in mythology and folklore, so not completely my father, Mr Corporate Lawyer man.” 

 

“I see you haven’t lost your proclivity for startling wit.”

 

Stiles shoves at Peter’s shoulder, in that soft, playful way that happens between friends. Peter’s always had the ability to slip under Stiles’ skin, wearing him down from the inside until he eventually gives in. Peter sways back towards Stiles, grinning indulgently and it’s crazy how his smile rockets Stiles back to being twelve and the hot, fluttery feeling in his stomach increases tenfold. It’s muscle memory to smile back and that’s what Stiles is thinking about - the familiarity of leaning into Peter’s space - when Peter kisses him. 

 

Peter tastes like bourbon and skin. The world goes completely silent save for the soft, wet sound of their mouths sliding together. Stiles’ mouth has partly opened in shock, allowing Peter to slip his tongue in and holy shit, Peter is good at kissing. Stiles feels like he’s at the top of a roller coaster, looking over the edge and Peter’s hands on his waist is the plunge. Stiles pulls back, stumbling out of Peter’s reach and the kiss stupor Peter put him in. 

 

“What the fuck was that?”

 

“It was a kiss,” Peter replies, fingers flexing like he doesn’t understand why Stiles isn’t under them. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

 

“I… what the hell? What did you do that for?”

 

“Because I wanted to. You kissed me back.”

 

“I… wha...well,” Stiles splutters, “it was a combination of shock and… well. I just followed through, like a hug or handshake.” 

 

Peter pauses, processing Stiles’s words. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” 

 

Stiles is about to reply scathingly but anxiety punches the bottom of his stomach out. Nikolai is standing a few feet away, watching them with a sly, knowing smirk. He tilts his head to one side, dark eyes glittering. Nikolai winks before slinking away back to the house. Peter goes to turn to see what Stiles is looking at but Stiles grabs Peter’s chin, which in hindsight was not the smartest move he’s ever made. It’s weirdly intimate so Stiles lets go. 

 

“I need to go,” Stiles says and he takes off, doing an awkward speed walk and leaving a confused, hurt Peter behind. 

 

\---

 

Stiles rams Nikolai against the wall, hands gripping the slick grey material of Nikolai’s suit. They’re in a quiet upstairs hallway, none of Claudia’s irritating friends or John’s deputies in sight. Nikolai’s grinning in an unhinged, violent way like a fox staring down a rabbit. 

 

“Problem, little brother?”

 

“You’re thirty seconds older, shut the fuck up.”

 

“Always so touchy about that,” Nikolai drawls. 

 

“You’re an asshole.”

 

“And you’re kissing Peter Hale in the garden, I’d thought you’d be delighted.” 

 

This is how it’s always been between them. Bitterness and backstabbing, desperately scrabbling to get the upper hand. Nikolai has always been barbed wire and switchblades, be the first to draw blood, manic energy and dark circles under his eyes. Stiles is more gunpowder and bare knuckles, collect valuable information to attack with precision, controlled chaos and bruises on his arms. This is how it’s always been and how it will always be. They just bring out the worst in each other. 

 

“Shall I tell Mom?” Nikolai says, “Whisper it in her ear whilst she’s talking to all her waspy friends? Or maybe I’ll just slip it into conversation with Dad, while he’s comparing hunting equipment with Parrish? You though Parrish was hot at one point right?” 

 

Stiles drops his hands, taking a step back. Then he punches Nikolai in the face. Nikolai lets it happen, not even bringing a hand up to stop Stiles or protect his face. Takes the hit like he’s always done, like he enjoys the violence, enjoys the physical displays of Stiles’ wrath. He laps at the blood bubbling up from the cut on his lip and grins. 

 

“You wanna play, let's play.” 

 

Nikolai grabs Stiles lapels, pushing him against the opposite wall. Stiles groans as pain flares in the base of his spine but he grabs Nikolai’s arm and twisting it to get out and under. Nikolai pulls Stiles in close, right arm wrapping round Stiles throat. 

 

“Oh little brother,” Nikolai whispers in his ear, “you’ll have to do better than that.”

 

“We’re the same height!”

 

Stiles snaps his head back, headbutting Nikolai. Blood streams from Nikolai’s nose. Stiles pants, using Nikolai’s momentary disorientated to flip his brother onto the floor. Nikolai pulls Stiles down with him. They wrestle on the floor, snarling like wolves. Eventually, Nikolai manages to get Stiles on the ground and holds him there by the throat. It’s a warning, no real pressure but Nikolai squeezes just once to prove the point. 

 

“You never come home anymore,” Nikolai says, tone cloying and whiny. Stiles pants, blood trickling down his face from a cut above his left eyebrow. “We used to have fun, you and I. Until the Hales moved in next door. Then you were all over Peter, your darling new playmate. He was so  _ pedestrian _ . Don’t know what you see in him?” 

 

Stiles makes an attempt to push Nikolai off but Nikolai bends down, shifting his weight so that he’s draped over Stiles and more difficult to move. He makes a tutting noise. 

 

“Now, now Mieczyslaw, we’re just having a little brotherly chat.”

 

“You’re a shitty brother.” 

 

Nikolai tilts his head to one side. 

 

“Maybe if you hadn’t abandoned me for Peter then I wouldn’t have tried to annoy you to get your attention. Peter left you in the dirt and still you withdrew from me. Only giving me a fraction of your full attention. I understand you better than he could ever dream of.” 

 

“Maybe cause your idea of brotherly bonding is making me bleed.”

 

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it,” Nikolai snarls, “you’re just as bloodthirsty as I am. You just restrict yourself.” Nikolai runs his index finger through the blood on Stiles face, smearing it across Stiles cheek. Stiles shakes his head, snapping his teeth at Nikolai’s fingers. 

 

“Restrict myself? What the fuck have you been doing then?”

 

Nikolai smiles, frenzied glee glinting in his eyes. 

 

“Let’s just say, I’ve become quite adept at making other people bleed. It’s not the same as when we fight though, they never understand how to make it last, how to make it fun.”  

 

The image of missing posters fluttering in the wind blooms in Stiles mind, crystal clear and haunting. 

 

“Oh you worked it out finally? Took you long enough, you used to be sharper Mieczyslaw.” 

 

“You’re a monster.” 

 

“Only as much as you are,” Nikolai murmurs, “I think I’ll deal with this Peter problem head on this time as I should have done years ago. We’ll be at the place where deer fear to tread if you wake up in time to join us.”

 

Nikolai grabs Stiles head, smacking it against the hardwood floors and everything fades to black. 

 

\---

 

Stiles can see Peter from his bedroom window. He’s in his backyard, wiping the sweat from his brow with his basketball shirt. He’s sixteen, high school basketball champion and unreachable. Next door might as well be another country, one that Stiles doesn’t have visa papers for. Almost two years drifting in the opposite direction, Stiles has since learned the art of accepting one’s own loneliness. Claudia has started gently bullying him into taking up lacrosse, since attempts to get Nikolai to join a team sport have failed. 

 

Peter bends over to pick up his basketball, talking to someone Stiles can’t see. Peter laughs, running a hand through his hair. Stiles gets up from his desk, heading over to his bed and flopping down on it. His throat feels steel trap sharp. Stiles stares at the ceiling, counting the blemishes in the paint and considering how abandonment still stings. 

 

The bed dips. There’s a pause, an exhalation and then Nikolai flicks Stiles ear. Stiles flinches away, sitting up and rubbing his ear. 

 

“Fuck off Nikolai.”

 

Nikolai pouts like a child denied candy. He spreads out on Stiles bed, looking up at Stiles with big, pleading eyes. “You never want to play anymore.”

 

“You cheat at games,” Stiles replies, pulling his knees close to his chest. 

 

“It’s not cheating, it’s finding a strategic advantage. Anyway, you’ll never guess what I found in the woods.”

 

“You’re right, I’ll never guess, cause I don’t care.” 

 

Nikolai crawls across the bed to push his face against Stiles shoulder. “Come on, guess!”

 

“No.”

 

“Please!”

 

“I literally do not care.”

 

“Urgh, you’re no fun. Fine, I’ll tell you.” Nikolai pauses, tilting his head so that it’s in Stiles line of vision. “I found a dead body.”

 

“What?”

 

“There’s a dead body in the woods, wanna see it?”

 

“What? No! You need to tell Dad if found a body.”

 

“That’s boring, come on I know you wanna see it.” 

 

Nikolai is so close to Stiles face now. Stiles heart is bird wing fast as he considers the malicious glee in the amber flecks of Nikolai’s irises. Stiles thinks of the dead deer, of delicate flowers and meat turning to rot, of blood and bone. He won’t deny his own fascination, not when Nikolai can see it so plainly. 

 

“Ok, lets go.” 

 

\---

 

Stiles becomes aware of a throbbing at the back of his head before the hallway comes back into view. He peels himself off the floor, mind scattered but turning. He knows where Nikolai has gone, he just needs to get there in time. Hazy memories of their father’s hunting cabin drift to the forefront of his mind; hands gripping knives and John’s soft voice guiding them through gutting. Do it wrong and you spoil the meat. 

 

Stiles stumbles downstairs. The party is still in full swing, sunset has brought out better alcohol and louder music. Stiles grabs John’s car keys from the hook by the door. The night air is cold on his flushed skin, almost numbing. 

 

He’s probably in no condition to drive but he gets in the Jeep anyway. It’s probably reckless to go running headfirst into danger like this but he doesn’t have any evidence and it’s not like anyone is going to believe him. Nikolai, for all his violent tendencies, is the golden child. The prodigal son who returned home after college, stayed in town to be close to his family. Everyone’s favourite, effortlessly charming, the boy who always knew how to twist a situation and come out clean. Stiles might have got better grades but Nikolai was the treasured son, the one destined to inherit the kingdom. Stiles is the weird boy, the distracted boy, the far away from home boy. 

 

There is no backup because no backup would believe Stiles. And that’s ok. This feels like something Stiles needs to do with his own hands anyway. 

 

\---

 

Nikolai’s mouth is a mockery of a smile. He shouldn’t be grinning this wide at the sight of a dead body but he is. Stiles stares and stares and it’s like the world is standing still. It’s just Nikolai and the body and Stiles and he’s as fascinated as he is horrified. It’s not like the deer and it is like the deer; Stiles wants to stuff the wounds with flowers but he knows he shouldn’t touch. They shouldn’t be here at all, they’re contaminating the crime scene. 

 

“We should go,” Stiles says, voice soft so as to not disturb the strange quiet. Nikolai doesn’t say anything, just slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders like they’re comrades in arms and marches them off back through the forest. 

 

They tell John when they get home, making up some story about how they went for a walk through the woods to just hang out with each other and stumbled across the body. An accident, a traumatising event, who could do such a thing? John believes it because his boys are good boys, they’re not violent, they don’t hurt each other because they can. 

 

They’re steeped in death from then on in. Nikolai brings Stiles all sorts of rotting things and they don’t talk about it. Stiles still keeps his distance, knows that agreeing to everything Nikolai wants to do is a bad idea. He’s going to escape the confines of this stupid town one day. If Nikolai doesn’t get to him first that is. 

 

\---

  
  


The cabin sits like a boat on in the middle of a lake. The surface seems steady but there’s tension under the water. Stiles’ mouth is dry. He’s six again, leaving his brother behind to play with the shiny new boy next door. He’s twelve, celebrating a joint birthday whilst thinking about the best way to ditch the party with Peter. He’s fourteen, watching Peter’s mother usher him inside after the first day of high school. He’s sixteen, letting Nikolai lead him through the woods to a dead body. He’s eighteen, watching Talia help Peter put college boxes into the back of the family’s Toyota, knowing that his own family will be doing that in a week’s time. These moments stack on top of each other, the intertwining of Nikolai and Peter as two beings competing for Stiles attention. Except Peter dropped out of the race and Nikolai changed his tactics to brutality. Stiles once again wonders if he truly drowned that day and whether this is what hell is. Then he decides what he’s going to do next will guarantee him a trip downstairs, not the innocent misbehaviour of youth. 

 

Stiles pushes the cabin door open. It goes easily, revealing the bloody scene behind it. Peter, bruised and beaten, is chained to a chair, illuminated by a single, flickering light bulb. He looks up when Stiles enters, one eye puffy and his lips blood stained. 

 

“Did you bring the calvary?” Peter asks. Stiles shakes his head. 

 

“Just me I’m afraid. How are you feeling?”

 

“Like your sadistic brother bludgeoned me on the back of the head when I was distracted and dragged me off into the woods to play a game like this is a an installment in a horror franchise.”

 

“Glad to see he hasn’t beaten the sarcasm out of you.”

 

Peter smiles winningly. 

 

“If you could stop flirting now, that would be wonderful,” Nikolai says, emerging from the dark behind Peter with one of John’s hunting knives gripped in his left hand. He traces the edge of the knife along the side of Peter’s throat before slicing off the top button of Peter’s shirt. The button hits the ground with a soft thud, rolling away into a crack in the wood. 

 

“Did you kill everyone here or is Peter just special?” 

 

Nikolai rolls his eyes. “There is nothing special about Hale.”

 

“Agree to disagree,” Peter interjects. He gets the knife tip pointed at his cheek for his trouble. 

 

“Will you still love him if I disfigure his pretty face?” Nikolai asks, tilting his head in a vulpine manner. 

 

“Weren’t you planning on killing him?” Stiles replies. He’s taking stock of the cabin, what he can make out in the shifting darkness. 

 

“Don’t give him ideas,” Peter mutters, head tilting sideways as he tries to avoid getting his cheek sliced open. Nikolai chuckles. In this light, his eyes are like wet ink. They follow Stiles as he takes careful steps towards the gutting table. The memory of the scent of blood is strong here, despite John’s rigorous cleaning. Well, Nikolai’s rigorous cleaning now Stiles guesses. 

 

“Do you want to play a game?” Stiles asks. Nikolai’s eyes widen briefly before he replies. 

 

“Riddles in the dark?” 

 

A game they played often, testing each others cleverness. Pretending to show off their logical thinking to their parents but really trading chores and favours and punishments. 

 

“Something like that.” 

 

Nikolai hums, lifting the knife away from Peter’s face. He twirls it in his hand; delicate, aerial movements. 

 

“If I win?” Nikolai asks.

 

“Then I’ll kill Peter. Which is what you really want me to do.”

 

Peter looks affronted but wisely keeps his mouth shut. This is a game of Go disguised as chess disguised as sibling rivalry. The stakes matter. 

 

“And if you win?”

 

“You let Peter go and hand yourself into the police, with evidence. I assume you kept souvenirs.”

 

“Urgh boring, don’t you want a better prize?” 

 

“These are the terms,” Stiles says, folding his arms across his chest. “Take them or leave them.” 

 

Nikolai sighs. He throws the knife, a quick deft movement and it flies past Stiles’ head to land in the wall. 

 

“Best of three?” Stiles suggests. Nikolai nods, coming around Peter to stand opposite Stiles. 

 

“I’ll start,” Nikolai says, voice low as if they’re children once more, sharing a bedroom and whispering into the darkness. “Has a tongue, but never talks. Has no legs but sometimes walks.”

 

“A shoe. I thought you’d go from something a little more challenging.”

 

“Maybe I want to ease you into it.” Nikolai takes a step closer to Stiles.

 

Stiles snorts. “Sure. I live without a body, hear without ears, speak without a mouth, to which the air alone gives birth. What am I?” 

 

Nikolai takes another step forward, running his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “An echo. I can fill a house or fill your mouth, but you can’t catch me with your hands. What am I?”

 

Stiles knows he’s being boxed in. Nikolai is advancing, pushing him back so that he’ll have nowhere to go. Stiles can’t reach the knife in the wall, though he might be able to reach the ones at the furthest edge of the table. 

 

“Smoke,” Stiles says, “That’s two, one to me. I drive men mad for the love of me. Easily beaten, never free, what am I?” 

 

Stiles lower back touches the table edge. 

 

“Gold. We’re neck and neck, better pull out something a little more complicated if you want to walk out of here Mieczyslaw. Now,  I am mother and father, but never birth or nurse. I'm rarely still, but I never wander. What am I?” 

 

The knives are in Stiles periphery. He hears Peter’s breathing, shaky and uncertain. 

 

“Tree. My turn, if you don’t answer then I win. Locked up inside you and yet they can steal it from you.”

 

“Oh Mieczyslaw,” Nikolai says, leaning over to whisper the answer into Stiles ear. “Heart.” 

 

Stiles looks at Peter. Wounded, bleeding Peter, still handsome in his brokenness. How strange they must look, in this rustic cabin in their decadent clothes smeared red. Somehow, Stiles knew it would always be this way. 

 

He moves quick, desperately throwing his hand back. 

 

                                        Nikolai goes to wrench the knife out of wall. 

 

Stiles fingers touch something cold and sharp, 

something raw and unpolished. It has rows 

of what feel like teeth.

 

Nikolai growls, struggling to remove the knife from the splintering wood. 

 

Stiles grips the object tightly, swinging round and plunging it in. 

 

Nikolai gasps, a soft, shocked sound. 

 

\---

 

Stiles jerks awake, feeling as if he’s been dropped on his bed from a great height. It’s not quite sunrise yet but there’s an early morning feeling to the world. Stiles runs a hand over his face. The duvet shifts, Peter making a soft, guttural sound. 

 

“Bad dreams?” Peter asks. He keeps his voice low so as not to disturb the quiet they’re in. The issue is, when Peter’s voice is low, it has a habit of merging into the voice he uses during sex. Stiles turns onto his side, Peter’s arm reaching around to pull Stiles in. Stiles takes comfort in the fever hot feeling of Peter beneath him, the sheer aliveness. 

 

Time feels dead in this room, their bedroom of seven years. Stiles touches the warm metal of his wedding ring with his thumb, as if by sheer repetition of movement he can smooth away the memories. Peter kisses Stiles forehead, playing with Stiles hair in the exact way that soothes him and they breathe together as the sun worms its way through the cracks in the blinds. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr - [here](http://neglectedtuesday.tumblr.com/) and [here](https://kblairpoetry.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Reblog the fic aesthetic [here](http://neglectedtuesday.tumblr.com/post/180357769533/bone-rot-steter-neglectedtuesday-6425-words)
> 
> Cain and Abel had another brother named Seth by the way. I don't know why but that's very amusing to me.


End file.
